Snakes Among Sweet Flowers Do Lie
by labellily
Summary: Sora's mom teaches us how not to weather a storm. Brought to you by being a crybaby about Sora's parents.


******Snakes Among Sweet Flowers Do Creep**

No, I do not own Kingdom Hearts, though it seems to have claimed ownership of a large part of my soul (thanks a lot). Also, yay drabbles!

* * *

It's dinner time and the world is falling apart. The sky looks bruised and beaten, black and blue with angry thunderclouds looking to settle scores. She takes a breath but jumps again at the boom of thunder. The lightning that slashes across the sky following the thunder by only a breath briefly illuminating the whole island. The trees are nearly horizontal, roots straining against the winds. Beyond the trees, she can see the shore-

And so she closes the shades, quietly, turning back to the salad bowl before her. She takes a moment to pause, hands resting on either side of the chilled bowl. The salad is brightly colored with lettuce and tomatoes and the raspberry vinaigrette that she had picked up especially for her son this morning. It has always been his favorite, and she _knows_ he's been unsettled and restless recently, she's been trying so hard over the last few weeks to remind him that this is his _home_ and she loves him-

She shakes her head resolutely and lifts the salad bowl, turning toward the dining room- and pauses again on a quick indrawn breath. Her husband is standing in the kitchen doorway, watching her. His eyes are the same brilliant blue as their son's- it had been the first thing she noticed about him, so many years ago. He had charmed her quickly, with that same exuberant personality that she is so thankful has been passed on rather than her own awkward humor and lopsided smiles.

Those brilliant blue eyes that she loves so much are dark tonight.

Lowering his gaze from the question in her eyes that she refuses to voice, he simply shakes his head and, clenching his teeth in an effort to control the tension she can see thrumming through his body, grabs his hat and coat from the kitchen table. He is gone, into the storm, before she can say anything.

_Good luck. Godspeed. Be safe._

There are strange things in the air tonight, as if the storm was running wild with a shadow-theater script of which none of the cast had been made aware.

She laughs a little bit at the morbid turn of her own thoughts, and moves toward the refrigerator to put the salad away. The salad will keep for a night or so, and Lord knows that her son and husband will be cold and wet after running around in that storm. Browsing her pantry, she wonders what will be the perfect dinner to welcome them home, warm them up, and quietly convey her gratitude that they're both safe and sound.

A small smile quirks her lips when she finally spots a box of the star-shaped pasta that her son made her swore never to tell anyone that he still loves. She'll make them macaroni and cheese, just like old times when they'd return home, triumphant and filthy after a soccer game or whatever sport had caught her son's interest.

She hums absently to herself as she fills the pot with water. Beyond the closed shades the storm rages. A feeling of distant dread snakes through her body, reaching up to choke off the cheery hum. She turns the water off, and listens.

The silence in the kitchen is an eerie companion to the wrathful storm beyond the safe walls of her home. Deep within her, panic stirs and lifts its ugly head, as if sensing her vulnerability. Tightening her grip on the pot, she once again shakes off the feeling.

There is no reason to feel like this. This storm will end, just like all the others. Her son is probably out doing something irresponsible, and when he comes back home she'll yell at him for making her worry and he'll swear never to do it again and apologize for making her so _scared_- but tomorrow the sun will be out and everyone will be fine.

She knows that. Of _course _she knows that.

So why is there this little voice whispering in her ear, black with malice and fear?

Closing her eyes, she imagines it: a woman standing alone in a kitchen, pretty for her age, pretty for a mother. She is still and she is quiet, and she doesn't see the shadows shifting on the floor around her. A snake is wrapping itself around her shoulders, its tail tickling her neck as its head moves closer to her ear. The colors are bright and the sounds are vivid, so she can hear the snake clearly when it tells her:

_You will never see your son again._


End file.
